AFOL
by TealEmperor
Summary: LEGO minifigures are often made with set roles in mind. Most of them are content to fit into their roles, never complaining about how their stories play out. But some are not so content. This can turn out good or bad. And in this case, it's very, very bad. (Rated T for now; might change later.)
1. Almost Irrelevant Prologue

**This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to fanfic in general, but it is my first Lego Movie fanfic. I want to be active in the fandom. So enjoy.**

 **This story takes place in between the first and second Lego Movies. There will be OCs involved, based on my minifigure collection from home. The only content warning I have to issue is one for brick-based violence at times :P**

 **The story might contain Emmetstyle because canon says so, and maybe Bennikitty because I think it's cute. Yeah.**

In most cases, Sir Chester the knight would have welcomed an interruption to his mentor's speeches about loyalty and honor, but not when that interruption happened to be an orc attack. His spine stiffened when he saw the green-skinned figures in their leaden helmets appearing as dots on the hilltops a hundred feet away. He gave a start. Actually, before today, he'd never laid eyes on the mythical troll warriors from the outlying regions of Middle Zealand.

"No need to be too scared of them," said his mentor. "There are many of the orcs and troll warriors, but they are weak."

"Why are they always attacking us? I'm always hearing stories about orc invasions."

"Greed. They're drawn to weapons and shiny things, and Middle Zealand has plenty of both. Weren't you taught this as part of your training?"

"I might have forgotten that part."

"I hope you haven't forgotten how to fight, at least."

Orik was Chester's mentor. Of course, most knew him as the famous Golden Knight. The victor of hundreds of battles and hero of many quests. He feared little, except his future, now that age had forced him to retire from grandiose heroism. Now his duty was to train up Chester to succeed him. He lifted his visor, gold-toned like the rest of his armor, to get a better look at the advancing enemy. A horde of about twenty orc ruffians were charging down the hills, headed for the watchtower he guarded with Sir Chester and a company of maybe ten common soldiers.

He cursed the small size of the royal army. It took months to train a civilian into a soldier and years to train a soldier into a knight. Those green imps from the outlands could churn out a hundred of themselves in a week. He scanned the approaching army of hostiles, trying to predict their strategy for this attack on royal land. Sir Chester swallowed hard and moved in next to him.

"Are you ready?" the older knight asked the younger.

"Not really," Sir Chester replied. "I don't know if I've been trained well enough for this..."

"Then this can be your final exam." Sir Orik drew his sword, four feet of gold-toned steel, from its scabbard. "Come. We have a tower to defend."

The two knights led the charge down to the plains below. Shouts and stomping feet sounded in their wake as the other soldiers followed them into battle. The orcs, or troll warriors, stampeded onto the plains in a swarm of green skin, brown leather, and iron weapons. Their ranks were disorganized, save for a slightly larger orc wearing a bright copper helmet, who barked out orders. The general, the warlord, whatever he wanted to call himself as a leader. Orik recognized him; Chester did not. The older knight, disregarding his age, threw himself towards his old foe.

Dagohir saw Orik coming from a mile away. The two had gone head to head countless times before; there were no secrets between them anymore. The orc warlord answered Orik's swinging gold sword with his own rusty machete. The blades clattered together, throwing a few sparks. No bitter banter was exchanged, however. Neither of them was the sort for that. They slashed and lunged, equally matched in skill.

"How many times am I going to have to fight you?" Orik growled, making a swing at the orc, who parried it in an eye's blink.

Dagohir made no response. He struck out with his machete, but it only glanced off the shoulder guards of the Gold Knight's armor. He muttered something unpleasant in his native Trollspeak.

He wiped some sweat from his flat green forehead."Let's make this one the last time."

"At least that's something we can both agree on," said the Gold Knight.

Meanwhile, Chester found himself staring down a group of three orcs, who advanced on him with spears drawn. He raised his iron sword with a shaking arm. When the orcs thrust their weapons at him, he dodged out of the way as instructed and launched himself at the first orc. Before it could react, he stabbed it with his sword, then pulled the blade back off. The dead orc fell to the ground. Its two comrades growled and lunged their spears at Chester again. How the knight wished he had a shield just then! He veered away from their attacks once more, and he beat the sharp spearpoints away with his sword.

"Orik taught you well!" one of the troll warriors said.

"Uh, thanks?" How was Chester supposed to respond to his enemy complimenting him on the battlefield?

"Ha-ha!" The other orc lunged its spear at Chester, taking advantage of the distraction. The spearpoint ripped through the knight's sleeve and cut his arm. He cried out in pain and gripped his arm.

"Hey!"

"Don't get distracted, boy!" taunted the first orc. "I guess Orik didn't teach you well enough."

Angered, both at himself and at the orcs, Chester ignored the wound on his arm to finish fighting. He blocked the incoming spears with his sword, then dove in and slashed his blade down on one of the orcs, slicing a big gash across its chest. The other went in to help its comrade, only for Chester to relieve it of its head. The final orc standing held its chest, growling.

"You..." was all it said before Chester finished it off. He slid his helmet up slightly and wiped the sweat off his brow, looking at the three dead trolls warriors at his feet. Not too bad, really. Now that the adrenaline had worn down, his arm hurt again. It would need a bandage later. But he had to keep ignoring it, for the battle was not yet finished.

Around the young knight, the other soldiers battled the small army of remaining troll warriors. Some men had fallen as casualty, but it seemed that the good guys were winning. The orcs drew back slightly, their morale brought down by losing the upper hand. Chester sighed in relief and scanned the battlefield for Orik.

He gulped. The Gold Knight was in a melee with a bigger, stronger orc wearing a copper helmet. The general of the orc army...Chester had heard the stories. The two combatants knew each other's moves, to the point where their movements looked more like a choreographed dance than a fight. Unlike Orik, the years had had little effect on Dagohir the orc. He was just as spry as he'd been in the Gold Knight's glory days. Already Orik's attacks came on more slowly than Dagohir's, something that troubled Chester greatly. He wasn't ready to see his mentor be struck down during his very first battle as a knight.

Someone shouted a battle cry behind him. He gasped and spun around just in time to avoid getting his throat cut by a knife-wielding orc. He cut his enemy down with a sword slash and looked around for other approaching foes. The royal soldiers held the line, pushing back the orc army. Green bodies littered the ground. Perhaps victory was just around the corner after all.

Orik swung his great golden sword, panting. Dagohir just laughed, barely short of breath.

"You're too old for this, Orik," the orc jeered. "If I can defeat you, I'll have won this battle no matter what. I've wanted to for a long time."

"I'm sure you have." Orik struck at his machete, hoping to knock it out of his hands.

They exchanged a few more blows. Then a younger troll warrior came charging up the hill.

"General!" they gasped. "We're losing men fast."

"What?" Dagohir had been too absorbed in his mano-e-mano to notice that.

"I think we have to retreat. We're losing. Badly."

Dagohir said something obscene in Trollspeak. "Sniveling cowards...Fine, then. We'll retreat."

"Are you surrendering?"

Dagohir ignored him, screaming to his soldiers instead."Fall back! Company, retreat!"

The troll warriors turned and ran back to whence they'd came, leaving cheering royal soldiers in their wake. Chester raised his sword to the sky and shouted for joy. The enemy hadn't even gotten near the tower. What a great result! He felt so accomplished.

"You were saying something interesting about defeating me?" Orik teased Dagohir. "Or do you want to finish this quick?"

"Oh, shut up," Dagohir growled. "Forget what I said before. I'll fight you again. I'll fight you until the day we both die!"

He spat on the ground near the Gold Knight's feet, then ran after his fleeing soldiers. The company of royal soldiers parted to let him leave. Orik gave them no orders to attack or even detain Dagohir, so they let the troll warlord leave on his own terms.

Chester hurried up to Orik's side. "You're letting him leave? Why?"

"He said it himself. We'll fight some other day." The Gold Knight removed his helmet and shook out his graying hair. "He and I have fought each other since before you were born. I respect him too much to just let one of the soldiers off him on the field. If I defeat him, it's in battle with the honor of a warrior. You know how that works, Chester."

"Well, yeah," said the younger knight, "but still. You had such a chance to finally get rid of him."

"Chester." Orik's tone was firm. "Do not debate this with me. The battle is over; no need to argue over it. Besides, it's almost time for dinner."

Chester also pulled off his helmet, revealing his mousy brown hair. He dabbed some sweat off his face. He and his mentor approached the company of royal soldiers to take a record of casulaties. There had been some, unfortunately, and now they had to be accounted for. Each fallen soldier had to be given the highest honor for their service.

"Good work today, Chester," Orik said. "From what I glimpsed of your action on the battlefield today, you are a fine knight. Just as I suspected."

"Are you congratulating yourself?" Chester asked with a lopsided smile. "You were the one who trained me, after all."

Orik laughed. "Well, perhaps just a little."

* * *

Dagohir pushed weeds and thornbushes and dead saplings out of his way as he marched through the depths of the woods. These were the Wailing Woods at the edge of Middle Zealand, a forest where few dared venture. A few of his soldiers followed him through the brush, especially his lackey Gruntgut. When the foliage got too thick, Dagohir cut it away with a swipe of his machete. He muttered, in his native Trollspeak, every curse and cuss word he knew. He hated to lose battles, and he hated to lose soldiers. What would the other warlords think of him for losing a simple tower attack?

Finally, he broke past a tree line and came to the foot of a rocky cliffside. A dark cave opening yawned in its side, grown over partially with ivy. But he knew better than to think the place was unoccupied.

"This is the place," Dagohir told his followers. "Now wait here."

"Can I come?" Gruntgut pleaded. The smaller troll warrior grabbed hold of Dagohir's leather shirt.

"I suppose," the warlord conceded, "but you can't cling to me like a child. Have some dignity, for love's sake."

"Sorry." Gruntgut let go of him. The two troll warriors walked up to the mouth of the cave. Dagohir slid his machete into its scabbard and motioned for Gruntgut to leave his hand axe at the door. So he leaned it against the rock wall, and then they both entered the cave.

They passed through a short tunnel before coming to a cold chamber. A few candles barely lit the room, casting an eldritch glow over the shelves of magical items stocked inside. An empty cauldron sat in the center of the chamber. An undead skeleton horse waited in the corner, using its hind hoof to scratch at its nose.

"Ah, Dagohir," said an undead skeleton wearing a long black cape with a hood. "How did the battle go?"

"The way you wanted it to," said the warlord, sounding almost hurt, "but not the way I wanted. I hope you're happy, Reaper."

"'Happy' isn't quite the right word." Reaper's red eyes glimmered under the hood. "'Pleased' might be more appropriate."

Dagohir rolled his eyes. "I sacrificed my soldiers _and_ part of my reputation for this plan of yours. It had better be worth it."

Reaper sighed and pulled a cloth bag from the pocket of his cloak. He tossed it towards Dagohir. The pouch skidded across the floor and stopped at the troll warrior's feet.

"If you've cheated me..."

"Relax. I'm a skeleton of my word."

Dagohir grunted, but picked up the pouch and opened it to examine its contents. Lots of shiny gold coins and some jewels greeted him. He nodded grimly.

"Worth it?" Reaper asked.

"Sure." Dagohir strung the pouch onto his belt. The gold and gems were worth at least the same as whatever treasure he'd get from sacking the tower. "I just want to know why you needed my help. Why not butcher your own skeleton warriors for this?"

"I don't have that many," Reaper answered, rather testily. "To make skeleton warriors, I have to raid cemeteries without being seen, find whole skeletons and not random bones, use up my limited magical resources on necromancy spells to reanimate them, and then train them myself to be soldiers. This takes far more time, effort, and resources than you realize. All you have to do is recruit ruffians from the wilderness. Your race is practically born and raised to fight."

Dagohir grunted. "Fair enough. So I attacked one of the royal guard towers and lost the fight on purpose. Now what?"

"False security, that's what," Reaper replied. "It won't be long before news of the victory reaches their King Dominic at his castle. They will not expect anything to happen so soon after an incident like this. Which makes this the optimal time to carry out the rest of my plan."

"I thought you already had a plan! What would that even be?"

"To change my destiny—all our destinies," Reaper answered. "I see the story play out all the time; in fact, it happened just today. Tell me, Dagohir. When was the last time the undead skeletons or the troll warriors won a war here in New Zealand? We have won battles every now and then, but have we ever gotten to rule from the King's Castle?"

Dagohir shook his head. "Uh, never."

Reaper slammed his bony hand on the rim of the cauldron. "Exactly! It's the same across _all_ the themes. The Castle army always defeats us skeletons and orcs. The Space Police always catch the Blacktron and Black Hole Gang. The Rock Raiders and Power Miners always fight off the rock monsters. The Imperial Armada always has better weaponry than the Pirates. The Jedi will beat the Sith every time. When Batman and the Joker go head-to-head, Batman wins invariably. Need I go on?"

"I get the idea."

"The deck is always stacked against us 'bad guys.' When I'm in charge, though, things will be different. I say it's high time the villains came out on top for once."

"But...isn't that what we usually try anyway?"

"No, we haven't, because we've never thought outside of the box. We need to be aware of the storytelling at play. We can't respond to things as they; we have to be proactive. If us villains will ever win, we have to be surprising."

"I don't think your plan is going to work."

"Don't be so quick to judge, orc," Reaper said. "Are you going to stay with me in my plan? Or do you want to keep fighting predestined battles?"

The orc's hand moved away from the handle of his machete. "...Go on."

"I've got an idea, Dagohir, and I think it will help our cause greatly. You see, the world's greatest heroes have the gathering of the Master Builders to keep organized. We villains have no such luxuries. We're scattered, disorganized, and it's only the more advanced of us that even know about other themes."

"That's true." Dagohir had yet to encounter any other troll warriors that knew about the existence of other themes. He himself hadn't heard about them until he met Reaper.

"Why not make an assembly of villains? If we can gather the elite rogues, monsters, and villains of all the themes, imagine the potential. Great minds, great power, great ideas. We could be the Master Destroyers."

"I like the idea," said the troll warlord, "but we'd never be able to do it. The Master Builders would sense something was up. They might even call on the Special to put a stop to it."

"Don't worry about that," Reaper assured him. "I already know what I'll do about _him_."


	2. Party Like It's 1392!

**Hai! If my characterization is a little off, I'm sorry. I'm not used to writing for these characters. It might take me a little bit to get used to their unique voices and personalities. Even so, I hope you have fun reading my story. I'm so happy to be getting nice reviews on it :3**

 _Two days later_

Middle Zealand required the longest clean up process in the aftermath of TAKOS Tuesday. The main reason for this, of course, was the lack of technology for quickly correcting all the damage done by Lord Business's attack with the Kragle. Large parts of the landscape had to be reassembled after they had been torn apart by Micromanagers. Emmet pitched in to help, always eager to take on an opportunity to use his new Master Builder powers. With his combined skills of Special and Master Builder, and with the support of his friends, he could make the medieval world of Middle Zealand even better than before.

And he did. The new castle was bigger, better, and (most importantly) more awesome than ever before. He brought updated styles to the outlying guard towers and the commoners' towns. He met the factions of Lion's Knights, Black Falcons, Wolf Pack, Fright Knights, and Forestmen, learning their unique building styles along the way. That was one of his early lessons in a Master Builder – to let others inspire him. Imagination was meant to be shared. Vitruvius would be proud.

Just before he planned on leaving to rebuild the the world, however, Middle Zealand made an offer to him he couldn't turn down. They invited him to a fantastic banquet held in his honor at the newly-renovated castle. How could he say no to a party?

"I can't thank you enough for all your help," King Dominic told Emmet as he led him and his friends into the great hall of the newly-rebuilt castle. "It is even more fantastic than its predecessor. The whole realm owes you very much gratitude."

"It's the least I can do, Mr. King!" Emmet said.

"Look! Look, look, look!" Unikitty squealed, pointing her paw at a particular painting in the great hall. "He even added the rainbow painting. It was my idea. I asked him to put it in."

"I asked for a spaceship painting," Benny said, dejected. "But Emmet told me no, that it wouldn't fit with the rest."

"Aww, it's okay, Benny," Unikitty assured him. "Maybe you can build us an awesome spaceship to fly us home after this."

That cheered him up quite quickly. He said "yay!" and did a little bouncy dance right there and then.

"Wow, Emmet. I'm really impressed." Lucy glanced up at the architecture of the castle. "Seriously. Super amazed at this. You've gotten so _good_ building."

It was true. Graceful gray walls rose up high around them, reaching up to the beveled ceiling. Arches and lion carvings abounded. It boasted accents in navy blue and pearl gold. The floor was decorated in yellow designs as an homage to the earliest Castle builds. It was a space built quite literally for a king.

And today, it was set up for a party! Three banquet tables ran the length of the great hall, covered by crisp white tablecloths and surrounded by elegant high-backed chairs. Candles burned as centerpieces, adding to the ambiance. At the front of the great hall, there was a stage with a little trellis arching over it, and upon that stage stood a small band, tuning their instruments. To practice, they started playing a classical remix of "Everything is Awesome."

"AUGH! Not that song!" Lucy complained.

"Play something else!" Batman begged the cellist and flutist, who ignored him.

"Yeah!" Emmet cheered, oblivious. "It sounds so cool in this style!"

"It's my pleasure," King Dominic said. "Although your friends aren't finding it much of a pleasure, I'm afraid."

Mercifully, the band fell quiet as they finished tuning up. Dominic filled the silence with some long story about the time back in his salad days when he discovered the troll warriors' secret hideout at the Coal Mountains and defeated all the enemies by himself, truly earning his reputation as Middle Zealand's bravest king. It may or may not have been true. He sometimes exaggerated the stories of his salad days...

"Speaking of salad!" he said, catching himself, "I need to check on the kitchen preparations. It's not just you all whom we are serving. I invited the whole kingdom."

"Oh, wow!" said several people, including Emmet.

"Here." He pushed a piece of paper towards Emmet. "Write down what drinks you want. That is what we will be serving from the start, followed by a first course of a soup and salad. After that comes the appetizers and then the first entree..."

His voice faded as he disappeared into the depths of his castle off the right side of the great hall. Emmet and his friends looked at each other.

"Seems like a good guy. This should be cool."

* * *

The orc warlord came running into Reaper's cave in a precious hurry.

"The Special is here!" Dagohir declared, stumbling into the rocky recesses of the hideout.

"I know," Reaper replied, unfazed. "I heard the news."

The skeleton was looking intently at a few bottles of colorful liquids and sparkly powders set in front of his cauldron. A small amount of hot water simmered in the pot. He was making a potion.

"This could be either your big chance or a horrible turn of events for you," Dagohir went on.

"I know that, too." Reaper uncorked a bottle of red liquid and poured it in the cauldron. "To make sure it's the former and not the latter, I have a plan."

"Do you always have a plan or something?"

Reaper didn't answer. Instead, he pulled the lid off a jar of sparkling blue powder, grabbed a fistful of the stuff, and dropped it in the cauldron.

The troll warrior took a step closer. "What are you making?"

"I'll explain it in a minute. I have to make some modifications before this potion is ready." Reaper looked at some notes written on a piece of paper, then at his cauldron, and then grabbed a heart-shaped bottle of pink liquid. When he uncorked it, a powerful odor of strawberries and fresh flowers attacked Dagohir's senses.

"Eww!" the orc (who hated pretty, sweet things) remarked. "What is that?"

"A little bit of love," Reaper said with a wink. "It might help my case."

"You're making no sense...at all. I wish you'd just say things straight."

"But that doesn't make for very memorable quotes, now does it?" Reaper stirred his potion, then scooped up a bottleful of it into an empty flask. He set it on a table to cool.

"So, are you going to tell me what your plan is for dealing with the Special's presence in Middle Zealand?"

"I suppose it's better to tell you now than to wait to give my villainous monologue. Whenever villains monologue, it tends to backfire on them. Anyway. To preface, look at me. I'm a skeleton, and thus obviously a bad guy. Have you ever seen a theme where the skeletons were the good guys?"

Dagohir shook his head.

"Exactly my point. I'll never sneak into Dominic's castle looking like this. That's where this potion comes in. It will change my appearance. I paid a pretty penny for the original potion, but I had to modify it for my purposes. I added diamond dust to make its effects permanent, and the dash of love potion will give me a charisma boost."

"But what does that have to do with Emmet?"

"I need to sneak into the castle to get the ingredients for my next potion," Reaper explained. "Which is, of course, the next part of my plan, as I'll be using it on Emmet. I'll never be successful in assembling the Master Destroyers, much less winning the war for once, with that annoying protagonist on my back. So, I figured, _why not bring him over to my side?_ "

Dagohir's troll warrior brain struggled to connect the dots of Reaper's plan at first, but when he did, a wicked smile crept across his face. He liked that idea.

"My, my. You've got all of Middle Zealand wrapped around your bony little finger. So. Let's see what that pretty potion of yours does, now."

"All right, as you wish. It should be cooled properly by now." Reaper picked up the potion. "Cheers?"

The orc shrugged. "Cheers, I guess."

Rather than drink the potion, however, the skeleton threw back his hood and doused himself in the bottle's contents. It washed over him in a creepy red cascade. He let out a pleasured sigh before tossing the empty bottle aside.

"Uh...What's that supposed to do?" Dagohir had taken two steps backwards.

Reaper didn't even need to say anything; the effects of the brew explained it all. Before the orc's startled eyes, his form very literally fleshed out. Organs grew in his rib cage, lean muscles grew over his bones, and a cover of pallid skin formed over it all. He grew a head full of shiny, chestnut-colored hair and the magic provided him with clothes – a brown jacket and black trousers. He looked really quite handsome. "Charisma boost" indeed.

"What do you think?" he asked Dagohir, who still stood there staring. Hearing Reaper's voice come out of a human body was a little jarring.

"Uh...Well, that worked. Sorry. That's gonna take some getting used to. So what are you going to do with that human disguise?"

"Infiltration. It's all in the looks when it comes to Middle Zealand. Everything's formulaic. Pretty equals good. Ugly and strange equals evil. Would you expect someone looking like this to be the bad guy?"

"Not in this world, no."

"And there you have it. They won't suspect a thing until it's too late. Now, I hear our old friend Dominic is hosting a party for the Special tonight. Just the perfect time to enact the next part of my scheme. I'll sneak into the castle, find an opportunity, and work my magic on the Special. It will be great. Oh, I almost forgot."

He poured the dregs of the potion over his skeleton horse, which chewed on bones in the corner of the room. With a less dramatic, but still complete, transformation, it turned into a dashing brown stallion. He swung up onto its back and got ready to ride off.

"Make sure your army stays trained," was Reaper's parting instruction, before spurring his horse and riding off. "War might be on the horizon."

* * *

It was nearing night-time when Reaper approached Dominic's castle. The stone structure was even bigger and stronger than before, looking brave and virtuous. Vibrant banners in gold and blue hung from the walls and battlements. Gold light leaked from the windows. He could sense the joy and merriment radiating from it. It made him sick.

"Celebrate while you still can, Dominic," Reaper muttered, dismounting his horse and leading it by the reins. Among the peasantfolk heading towards the castle to join in on the party, he was undetectable. He had to resist the urge to let out a gleeful laugh at how well this was working. While the others around him chattered and giggled, he reviewed his scheme in his mind. He'd sneak into the party as a common guest, keep the spell components hidden away in his pockets, approach Emmet, cast the spell, and make his getaway in the ensuing chaos. A straightforward plot, although the escape part might be a bit harrowing.

The crowd drew closer to the anteroom at the forefront of the castle. It was newly equipped with turrets to ward off invaders, Reaper noticed, as well as a heavy portcullis to drop on any unwanted "guests." He had to admit that this new castle was quite an edifice. Though he had not seen this Emmet character deemed the Special, the fellow certainly had skill. Reaper hoped he could make use of that skill.

At the doors stood a small company of knights, wearing light armor and toting halberds. They watched the people entering the castle, making sure that there were no crooks or spooks hiding among the common folk. How incompetent of them, Reaper thought. He slipped right past them without arousing a hint of suspicion. How would he cause any concern when he looked like any random citizen off the street? Inwardly, he gloated at his cleverness.

After making it through the gatekeepers, Reaper found himself dumped into a courtyard with the other guests. Lanterns kept the space well-lit, and vendors stood around to offer food and drinks to the attendees. He accepted a cup of water from a vendor and dodged away from the glut of the crowd, backing up towards a stone wall to his left. He sipped his drink, shuddered at the sensation of the cold water trickling down his now-human throat, and observed the crowds. The massive, iron-reinforced wooden doors of the actual castle were still shut.

"That's curious," Reaper muttered, twirling his horse's lead rope in his hand idly. "You would think they would have everything ready by now."

Just then, a group of kitchen maids exploded out of a door right next to him. A din of banging pots and hissing ovens floated out of the room they'd just fled, as well as the smell of food burning.

"We don't have everything ready by now!" the maids fretted. "Too many demands, and not enough people to help."

"What's that?" Reaper whispered to his horse, who nickered a "I don't know" sort of noise in response.

"See if you can talk any of the guests here into helping," one maid advised the other.

"Ridiculous!" she responded. "No-one here is going to work instead of attend the banquet. Have you got mashed potatoes in your skull instead of brains?"

"Is something wrong, ladies?" Reaper asked.

"Yes, there is. We're stretched a bit thin on the banquet preparations. We don't have enough people for the job."

Reaper, being the clever little chessmaster that he was, hatched an idea and changed his plans slightly. "I think I might be able to help. I know my way around a kitchen."

"Great!" Without any other questions, the maids grabbed him by the arms and yanked him inside the kitchen. Instantly he was surrounded by blazing ovens, steaming pans, and shouting servants.

"I need more carrots over here, NOW!"

"Salad and dressings have to be out in ten minutes!"

"What the brick is a pizza doing in a Middle Zealand kitchen?"

"Who was in charge of baking the croissants? They're all burned!"

"THE DRINKS! YOU CAN'T FORGET THE DRINKS!"

"Who the brick is in charge of the bricking drinks?"

"Calm down, and watch your language," a maid scolded the guy yelling about the drinks; then she abruptly pointed at Reaper. "He can take care of those."

"Me?" He feigned surprise, but this was exactly what he wanted.

"Yes, you. What's your name?"

"Err..." He tried to think of the blandest name possible. "Joseph. I'm Joseph."

"All right, Joseph." The servant dragged him over to a table in the back of the kitchen. It was strewn with glasses, pitchers, and water jugs. "Dominic wants to serve some delicious berry juice to his guests. Don't skimp on what you pour out for Emmet and his friends...But try not to top it off, either. That does not turn out well, I have learned."

He went back to his own business after that, and Reaper turned his back on the rest of the kitchen. He smirked to himself and chuckled as he looked at the five goblets laid out for Dominic's most valued guests. They were labeled with their names – "Emmet," "Lucy," "Benny," "Batman," and "Unikitty." A slip of paper listed each person's favorite beverage: Emmet liked grape juice, Lucy preferred orange, Benny wanted apple, Batman had no preference, and Unikitty wanted something called 'blue razzleberry,' whatever that was.

"Alone with the stuff that's about to be served to the Special," Reaper whispered to himself as he slid the velvet pouch of magic components from his back pocket. "You can always count on castle staff to be laughably _stupid_."

He slid the components out of the pouch: coal dust to make the heart dark, tin poweder to increase the potion's strength, a dead spider for vileness, and a dragon scale with Reaper's name etched on it to determine where Emmet's new loyalties would lie. He poured the dark purple liquid into the glass marked "Emmet," then swirled in his potion ingredients. He whispered a spell to make them dissolve, then finished his work with a pinch of sand from an hourglass, which would time-delay the potion's effects.

"Change of plans," he mumbled as he poured the drinks for Emmet's friends. "This way, I don't have to make a harrowing escape. But by tomorrow, things will be very different—Uhp!"

"Thank you, Joseph!" A maid swept the tray of goblets out from in front of Reaper, then carried them into the great hall. "Come on out with me, and we'll get to see this banquet kick off. By Ole Kirk Christiansen's beard, this shall be a feast to be remembered!"

"All right!" Reaper said cheerily as he followed her out of the kitchen and into the Great Hall. But inside, he cackled in wicked glee.

Feast to be remembered, indeed.


End file.
